


The Writer

by GigiEverett02



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Humor, Short Stories, gigeverett02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:29:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22262623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GigiEverett02/pseuds/GigiEverett02
Summary: Harry is devastated when he is told that he is a terrible writer, so he decides to become a super villain to get his revenge.
Kudos: 1





	The Writer

Harry’s fingers flew tirelessly across his keyboard,  _ click click clacking _ away. The edits were coming along nicely and it was already going to be better than his previous works, he could feel it! Harry leaned in close, eyes squinting and beads of glistening sweat dripping off his nose and onto the desk. A half-drunk cup of coffee, now cold and flavorless from sitting abandoned for several hours perched nearby. The mug read “Grandma’s Favorite.” A news report on the latest super villain robbery buzzed from the tiny black-and-white television that sat at the foot of the bed. Harry found that he often wrote his best, and was most inspired when the t.v. was on and he could listen to the endless reports of murders, robberies, and muggings happening in the city. 

His story was almost there, almost done! He could taste his soon-to-be fame, the crowds screaming and frantic clapping sizzled on his tongue. Did someone say “Pulitzer?” It was so close! Just a few more words, a few more commas, almost there…

PERFECT!

It was finished. His masterpiece was complete and no one would be able to find fault with it this time! Harry licked his ink-stained fingers and shuffled his papers together in their correct order. He used a typewriter, obviously, as any self-respecting writer would. His thumb left a large black smudge on the cover, concealing part of the title, but Harry didn’t notice. Tomorrow he would prove his boss wrong. He  _ can _ write, and he  _ will  _ be a famous author. It was in the stars. 

  
  


⧫⧫⧫

The following morning, Harry stood at the bus stop, scarf fluttering in the wind. His eyes scanned the headlines of the newspapers at the nearby stand. They all read the same thing, “Stockbroker killed by mysterious villain: T.S.E.L.O.V. strikes again!” Harry hopped onto the bus, clutching his work tightly in his hands. He was on his way to his job, as a gofer at the publishing house. 

“I’ve finally done it, Mr. Solano! It’s done and it’s perfect!”

Harry had thrown the frosted glass door open and whipped his manuscript on his boss’ desk.

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Solano asked. He was rather large man, not the type of guy you would think would be necessarily “proud” of his body, and yet he insisted on wearing extraordinarily tight button-down shirts and suspenders that could barely stretch across his enormous stomach.  He was balding, his forehead gleamed with sweat from hard work and fast food, his teeth were crooked and he smoked large cigars. But he was a positive force and a kind mentor to aspiring authors. He was generous with his time. Everybody loved him. 

Over the years, Mr. Solano had poured in more than his fair share of time when it came to reading and editing Harry’s work. Each piece was more laughable than the last. The boy was a talent-less hack, but Mr. Solano didn’t have the heart to tell him that, so instead he let him down as gently as he could. But subtlety isn’t Harry’s forte, and he simply kept bringing Mr. Solano more and more stories. 

“I’ve finally written a masterpiece! A sensational work of art! It has drama, action, romance, murder, and a happily ever after with a twist!” Harry grabbed the chair sitting across from Mr. Solano’s desk and straddled it, his awkward, gangly legs flung outwards, appearing strikingly similar to an over-sized, prepubescent mosquito. He reached his hands up to the water-ringed ceiling and leaned his head forward. “It’s called  _ Gothic Dawn _ . I’ve been working on it off and on but last night was something special! I actually finished it!” Harry brought his hands back down and gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles turning white with anticipation. “I think you’ll appreciate this story in particular.” He attempted to wink, but closed both eyes instead. 

Mr. Solano held his hands up in weak protest. “Listen, Harry, we’ve talked about this. You’re--”

“I know, I know. I’m  _ average,  _ whatever that means, I don’t have ‘it’. But I’ve finally found my groove. Honest! I was re-reading some of my favorite vampire-romance novels last night, the absolute best books in the world, no doubt about it, and they just...inspired me! I mean, I pulled an all-nighter just to get this done so I could show you!” Harry clasped his hands together and gave a large and pathetic smile. “Please? I promise, it’s the best I’ve ever written.”

Mr. Solano sighed and gave a single nod. It was hard to say “no” to young authors in desperate search of approval and accomplishment. He placed his still smoking cigar down onto the shaky ashtray his grandson had made and took the manuscript. With one last doubtful look at Harry and a slight raise of his eyebrows, Mr. Solano began to read. 

“Um, would you mind reading aloud?” Harry asked. Mr. Solano lifted his eyes from the paper and looked at Harry, who was holding one long, crooked finger up. “It would just sound better if it was spoken. You know, for dramatic effect.”

“Right. Sure.” Mr. Solano gave Harry another glance, this one a tad more distasteful than the last, and started to read again. This time, out loud. 

_ Gothic Dawn _

_ By Harry Guzzler  _

_ My name is Amethyst Stone and I am a 16 year old teenage girl. I have long black hair that reaches my waist and bright gray eyes. I’m a goth. I wear my big boots almost everyday and my skull earrings and my corset with fake blood all over it. My dad hates that I’m a goth but I think “screw it who cares.” I am who I am.  _

Mr. Solano stopped reading at this point and looked up at Harry. Harry was leaning back slightly with his eyes closed, as if he were at a spa, enjoying the flowery ambience and foamy bubbles of a warm bath. Mr. Solano cleared his throat in an attempt to get Harry to open his eyes, but Harry remained in his state of...reverie? Pride? It was unclear. 

“You can keep reading.” Harry said, after Mr. Solano hadn’t spoken again for approximately 30 seconds. “It gets better, just wait.” 

“Maybe I’ll skip ahead,” Mr. Solano suggested. “To save time and give me a better idea of the story.” 

Harry didn't respond. He just continued to lean back and smile softly, waiting patiently for his life’s hopes and dreams to piece together in front of his eyes. Mr. Solano turned to about the middle of the manuscript, still glancing at Harry in a half-amused, half-concerned way. 

_ I was at the mall with my friends when I met him. His name was Harrison and he was tall with really pale skin and dark hair and dark eyes. I could tell he was a goth too because he was wearing all black and big boots and had gages. My friend Selina whispered “He’s so hot get his info” but I just glared at him. Yeah he was hot but he was probably all mopey or whatever. Then he started to walk over to me. I’m not shy so I looked at him without blushing or anything even when he started speaking. His voice was low and kind of gravely so I could tell he was into screamo or punk or something because those kinds of people always sing along and mess up their throats. “Hi.” he said. “Hi” I said back in a salty way. “My name’s Harrison, Harry for short.” _

It was at this point that poor Mr. Solano could no longer keep it together and let out a loud snort of laughter. Harry opened his eyes and leaned towards the desk, his face resembling that of a confused child who had been reprimanded without understanding why. 

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Solano? Did you sneeze? Or, did I make a typo?” 

The man had reached the end of rope. No more games, it was time to be brutally honest. It was the only way to get through to this delusional wannabe. 

“Harry,” Mr. Solano started. He ran a fat hand through what few strands of hair he had left and sighed. “Harry, this is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. How many times do I have to tell you? You can’t write.”

“But this is better than my last story. Better than all my stories!” Harry objected. His bottom lip quivered slightly. This was not how it was supposed to go. Not at all.

“It is,” Mr. Solano agreed. “Which is exactly the problem.  _ This _ is the best you’ve ever written and  _ this  _ is complete buffoonery!” Mr. Solano jabbed at the papers with his index finger after every “this”. 

Harry lowered his gaze to the floor and studied the matted gray carpet, counting the fibers and refusing to look up at his boss. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. This was not how it was supposed to go. This story wasn’t just better, it was  _ good _ .

“Listen, Harry,” Mr. Solano softened his voice and walked over to the young and terrible writer. “You’re just not good enough. There’s a reason you’ve been my errand boy for four years and haven’t been offered an editing job, or any kind of promotion. You’re just not talented.” Mr. Solano placed a meaty hand on Harry’s thin, flimsy shoulder. “You’re just not good enough.” Mr. Solano leaned down slightly and softened his voice even more until it was nothing but a sad whisper. “You’re just... _ average.” _

It was at this time that Harry had his outburst. 

“Who the heck do you think you are? I  _ am  _ good enough! I  _ am _ ! You’re delusional! Insane!  _ Out of your mind! _ My talent is real, it’s  _ raw _ , and I will be a famous author one day, whether you help me or not!” 

And then Harry stomped out of the room, yelling, “you’ll see!” from over his shoulder and leaving a tired old man and the wrinkled manuscript pages behind.

⧫⧫⧫

Harry paced his tiny apartment frantically, flaky hands running through greasy clumps of untamed hair. How, how,  _ how _ could this have happened? He had done everything right! He had a strong, independent lead, (he was being courageous for writing from the point of view of the opposite gender), the characters were well-rounded. What else did he need? He wrote about his character shopping at the mall, gossiping with friends, dating hot guys. That’s what girls do, right? 

Harry continued to pace and occasionally looked out his window. Maybe his fairy godmother would appear before him, a bright blue light against the murky jumbled streets below. Or maybe he would witness Mr. Solano’s death. The man would keel over from a massive grabber brought on by the constant take-out from Meat Sweats or some other 24-hour fast-food restaurant. 

“I just don’t understand!” Harry cried out to no one. “I did everything right!” He collapsed onto his lumpy twin-sized bed and stared up at the ceiling. A cockroach scrambled across, gave Harry a baleful look, then scurried away. 

Harry put his arms behind his head. What had Mr. Solano said? That he was just  _ average _ ? Ha! Average. What a demeaning word. Insulting, really. What did he know?  _ Average,  _ Harry thought,  _ I’ll show him! _

He leapt out of bed and into his chair. The typewriter was ready. He was going to write a letter, that’s what he’d do. A letter. A really mean one, one that would make Mr. Solano cry big, fat, greasy tears. But what kind of letter? A grievance? A plea? A fake apology? No matter what is was, it would be eloquently typed and indicate dissatisfaction and bring Mr. Solano to his knees when he realized the massive mistake he had made. The imaginary light bulb hovering above Harry’s head glowed intensely beneath a thick layer of dust for the first time in, well, a long time. A fake apology! Yes, a letter that started out remorseful but that turned unexpectedly, leaving the reader sad and confused! Absolutely perfect. 

Harry’s fingers floated above his keys, vibrating with anticipation. His pointer finger reached for the letter ‘D’.  _ Dear Mr. Solano, I’m sorry...that you’re such a jerk!  _ He pressed down.

Then he heard a blood curdling scream drift upwards from the street and into his window. 

Harry froze. Surely his letter was not so powerful as to alarm strangers before it was even composed? He listened for more screaming, but all that was heard was the bustle of winter coats and shopping bags whisking past each other.  _ Oh well,  _ Harry thought,  _ probably just some kid playing a game. _ Harry shook his hands (even though he had only pressed one key so far) and reached for ‘E’. 

That someone screamed again. Only this time it was more frantic, more primal. Someone was hurt. 

Harry stood up cautiously and walked over to his window. His blindingly orange curtains blew violently in the wind, warning Harry to go back, but he ignored them. He looked outside. 

There, in the cramped alley right below his window, was the body of a woman. Her throat had been slashed, a ragged cut from one end of her neck to the other, imitating a bizarre smile. 

And then there was a man. He was running, no,  _ skipping _ away from the woman, a dazzling necklace in one hand, a stained knife in the other. He skipped away, then pulled out a mysterious gadget from his upper coat pocket, launched it into the sky and took flight. Harry neglected to call the authorities, call anyone, because for a moment, just a moment, Harry didn’t see a dead woman. Instead in his mind’s eye, he saw a dead Mr. Solano. 

Oh, who are we kidding? It was definitely for more than a moment. 

⧫⧫⧫

The following morning, Harry awoke to the sound of wailing ambulances and detectives chattering beneath his window. 

“What’s it look like to you, detective?”

“Another classic slash-and-skip to me. Commissioner Danthorp’s not gonna be pleased. T. S. E. L. O. V. has been goin’ especially crazy ever since they got their own corporate buildin’. 

Harry clambered out of bed and looked out his window. The woman was still lying there, the jagged slash now crusted over and her eyes glossy. Her hair was sprawled out like the legs of an octopus, wind blown and stringy. Harry crouched down so only the top of his head and his eyes were visible to any nosy passerbys. He was struck with, something, again. That same something he felt the night before. When he saw a sliced n’ diced Mr. Solano. An idea began to hatch in the deranged man’s mind. Harry stared at the woman’s mouth and the laceration underneath, one frozen in a scream of horrendous begging, the other smiling and dry, reflecting its maker. 

“You got that right. Too bad they don’t let cops in.”

“Yeah. We’d have ‘em by now if they let us in their buildin’ and told us their plans.”

“For sure. Well, it’s not our fault.”

“True that, Skippy.”

Of course.  _ Of course.  _ T. S. E. L. O. V.  _ The Super Evil League Of Villains.  _ That’s what Harry needed. T. S. E. L. O. V. His new idea bubbled in his head.  _ That’s what I’ll do  _ Harry told himself as he grabbed an old denim jacket off his bedpost and headed downstairs. Who could possibly deny him a chance at glory if he landed himself a position with T. S. E. L. O. V.? Nobody, that’s who. 

⧫⧫⧫

The blocky letters of Buy Stuff Here, the shopping hot-spot of the city blazed beneath the sun as Harry entered the store. His keys jangled merrily while he grabbed a cart and headed towards the holiday-costumes aisle. The fluorescent lights blared and flickered in time with the corny jazz music playing across the speakers. 

‘This looks about right,” Harry murmured as he reached for a flamboyant orange and lime green jumpsuit. The label on the packaging read “Be your own superhero!” in slanted letters. Then he grabbed a beginner magician box, a pair of white sneakers, a tie-dye kit, and a brown cape. On the way to the checkout aisles, Harry grabbed some orange and green felt from the “$1 only!” section before swiveling his cart wildly in front of the checkout lady.

She was an older woman, with grizzled hair and a variety of colored teeth. White, gray, yellow, silver, she had them all. Her purple eye shadow was smeared shakily across her eyelids in an adorable yet pity-inducing way that only old women who cling to the edge of youth could possibly have. Her lipstick was far too red and her concealer far too thick. 

“How are you doing today, dear?” she asked. Her liver-spotted hands clutched Harry’s items one by one, slowly loading them into bags. 

“Fine, fine,” Harry responded irritably. He had more important things to do than chat with lonely, aging women.

“Going to a costume party, eh?”

“Uh, no.” 

“Oh? Then what’s all this for?”

“Well that’s not really any of your business is it?” Harry snapped. How  _ dare _ she ask about his plans! Honestly, women are such  _ busybodies.  _

“There’s no need to snap, dear. I was just curious.”

“Oh, were you? Well, let me enlighten you.” Harry leaned in towards the lady. Once he told off this old bat he could tell off anybody. Especially Mr. Solano. “I’m going to take over the world.” He crossed his spindly fingers together and let out a low, evil chuckle that resulted in some saliva sliding down his windpipe and Harry letting out a harsh cough.

“The world you say? Hm, well that’s nice, “ the old woman said, then thought,  _ Honestly, kids these days. Think they can just buy a costume and join T. S. E. L. O. V. because they’re parents told them they’re special. Nonsense, utter nonsense. _

“You don’t believe me, do you? Well listen here, you old Bitty!” Harry gripped the counter separating him and the checkout lady and leaned in even closer, close enough that his feet lifted ever so slightly off the ground. His crooked nose threatened to touch her painted one. “I’ve been screwed over far too many times, my dreams crushed more than once, and I  _ will _ show everyone, including you and Mr. Solano just how successful I can really be!” And then he grabbed his bags and ran out the doors. 

“You forgot to pay!” The old lady shouted after him, but he was already gone. 

⧫⧫⧫

Harry stayed up late that night, cutting and gluing and sewing away, allowing only the moonlight to guide him for dramatic effect, which ultimately led to some very messy craft-making. He had attached the cape to the back of his jumpsuit and hot glued the words “The Writer” across the cape with uneven letters he cut out of the felt. He hung the jumpsuit up with a pair of silky white gloves he got out of the magician’s box and the sneakers, which were now a deep brown, because apparently just mixing purple and orange doesn’t make a cool design. Harry’s trusty mug that read “Grandma’s favorite” still sat in the corner, half full of flavorless water. A grin slowly stretched across his face as another idea popped into his head. He called his grandmother. 

At one o’ clock in the morning. 

The phone rang and rang, but no one answered. Harry called a second time, but still no answer. He tried again. No answer. 

After seven tries, his grandma finally picked up. 

“Hello?” a tired voice called out.

“Hey, Nana, it’s me, Harry.”

“Oh, Harry, what a nice surprise. What can I do for you, darling? I just bought some animal crackers yesterday, would you like some? I--”

“No, Nana, listen to me. I need your help.”

“I could prepare you a nice lasagna or--”

“Nana, no.”

“Maybe a hot brisket--”

“Nana, listen.”

“Or perhaps a steaming casserole. Everybody lovers casserole. Especially  _ my _ casserole--”

“NANA! Listen to me. I need your help. Get over here now.”

“Yes, darling. Happy to help.”

“Good. Now step on it.”

Nana arrived two hours later with a bowl of chicken soup. 

“I decided on soup,” she said as she entered Harry’s tiny apartment. 

“That’s great, Nana. Now listen, we don’t have much time. I need you to go back downstairs and stand in the alleyway beneath my window. While you’re there, you need to call out for help. I’m going to fake mug you.”

“Fake mug me?”

“Yes, fake mug you. I’ll have my weapon,” Harry revealed a wand from the magician’s kit that had been bent in half to function as a boomerang, “pointed at you and you need to reach into your purse like you’re grabbing your money. When the cops show up, I’ll pick you up and run out of sight.”

“I see. Well, sounds like fun. Why are you doing this?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I need to join The Super Evil League Of Villains to prove that I’m not a hopeless case, then kill Mr. Solano and become the number one author in the world!”

“Oh, yes, darling. I understand. Well, I’ll be on my way then.”

“Great. Now hurry, we don’t have all day.”

⧫⧫⧫

Nana stood alone in the alleyway, waiting for her cue. She wore a puffy cream coat and held a large pink bag in her left hand. Her watch read 4:24 a.m.  _ I hope Harry finds what he’s looking for _ she thought.  _ He always was such a strange boy. I hope this makes him happy.  _ She folded her arms and smiled at the rising sun in the distance. 

Approximately two minutes later, Harry jumped out of his window and into the alley, dressed in orange, green and brown. His eyes shined triumphantly.  _ This _ plan was going to work, no question about it. 

“Gimme all your money, old lady!” He shouted. He aimed his makeshift boomerang at Nana, and took a step forward. “Now!”

“Oh help! Somebody, help!” Nana cried out as she very slowly placed her hand in her purse. “Help!”

“Hey, do you hear that?” A voice called out.

“Yeah, yeah I do! Someone’s getting mugged!”

The two voices ran towards the alley and stopped right behind Harry. 

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing, Bozo?” one voice called out. 

“Wait a second.” the other said. “ _ The Writer? _ Oh, geez, this is another one of those posers. Just look at his stupid outfit and even stupider name.” 

Harry spun around wildly, facing the two voices. “Bozo, poser, stupid? Do you know who you’re talking to?” He spat.

“Yeah, see? Poser. Just look at how freaking  _ doofy _ he is.”

“Oh yeah, you’re right, Fred. He’s not a threat, just an annoying loser. Let’s get out of here.” 

“Don’t you dare leave!” Harry called after. “I’m the real deal I tell you, the REAL DEAL! Just listen to this!” 

And then Harry flung his boomerang towards the alley wall. 

And then it ricocheted off the wall and hit Harry in the back of the head. 

And then Harry fell down.

And then he didn’t get back up. 

And then Nana walked over to her unconscious grandson and said, “I thought you did a very nice job, darling. Very convincing.” 


End file.
